


Misplaced

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's lost, both in the universe and in himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misplaced

First published in  _Jumper 4_ (2011)

 

He hurt.

"John."

Mere breathing tore apart his chest, leaving his lungs desperate for air, and he shuddered. Probably made a noise, too, except he could barely hear, let alone comprehend.

"John?"

He choked, convulsed, felt involuntary tears slip down his cheeks. His whole world had become breathing against the pain.

"John!"

He wasn't safe here. There was danger, and responsibility for others, and an urgency that wouldn't be forgotten, but it wore away a little at a time with each searing wave.

"Just…rest, John."

The darkness was closing in, as thick as the anguish, and he'd run out of strength to fight it.

His last thought before it snuffed him out was to wonder who John was.

***

The darkness flickered.

He watched it dully for long minutes before the slow wash of pain brought recognition that this was not a dream, that his eyes were open and watching the play of shadows. He tried to turn away from it and found his head could not move without feeling like it would break into fragile pieces from the slightest shift. This was bad. There was danger, responsibility, he needed to go….

Even moaning hurt.

Movement beside him. His heart pounded a few beats faster, helplessness feeding fear, but he could do nothing. The pain was duller than before, but it was deep, heavy, and there would be no escape.

"John?"

The same voice as before, distorted through the layers of ache in his head. Maybe he would have recognized it without that muffling, but it was not familiar now. He couldn't even move his head to look at the speaker; he was so unbelievably weary and hurt.

"You're awake—that's good. I was worried."

Male voice. The face in his vision was as strange as the voice: round, worn, bushy-haired. The clothes were just as unfamiliar. Oh, God, his chest hurt. His lungs still refused to fill and the edges of his vision were graying. It would leave him at the mercy of this stranger.

"No, you're safe here. I'm a friend. Do you remember anything yet?"

No. His mind said it, but his lips refused to move. There was nothing before pain, nothing but the certainty it hadn't always been like this. A vague memory…friends? Purpose. Fear and joy.

Only the fear remained.

"Can you say anything?"

He would have laughed if he could. Say anything? He was working on just being alive. Staying awake would have been an accomplishment.

But he failed that, too.

***

"John?"

His body was heavy. Injured. Drugged? There should have been a voice with a burr to it….

"Please, you have to drink something."

Metal at his lips, and he parted them, thirsty. The liquid was stale and warm, but it was wet. Swallowing hurt. Breathing hurt. Opening his eyes was just tolerable.

The same face from before, still as unfamiliar. His heart sank within his crushed chest.

A smile turned into a look of sympathy. "You don't remember?"

He looked a "no."

"You arrived two days ago with your team. There were three others. We had just met when the Wraith came—you don't remember any of this?"

Wraith—the word filled him with a dread he couldn't place. His team? Others—friends? Were they gone? That was a whole different kind of pain, a diffuse sorrow. He couldn't form names or faces, but something inside him unmistakably missed them.

"You were separated from them, almost taken by the Wraith, but the collapse of a home hid you. I think your friends were able to escape. We found you and brought you with us. Remember?"

His friends escaped. He'd stayed behind. Saved, but alone. It was all his broken head could soak in. His chest, his shoulder, his arm all hurt far worse, but his head seemed to have received the real damage. The memories were just words, and trying to bring up the pictures to go with them made his forehead throb viciously. He groaned.

A hand rested on his forehead, cool and worn. "Don't try too hard, John. Just rest now. You're safe here—we'll take you back to your friends when you can travel."

Good, that was good, and he wished he could say as much, or thank this kind stranger, or ask one of the many questions he knew he had, but all he could do was blink. And offer the one most burning question in more exhalation than voice: "…who?"

"Who am I, or who are you?" A sad smile visible even in his dimming sight. "It doesn't matter who I am, but you are John. We didn't have time for introductions before the Wraith arrived, but you said your name when I found you."

Before his memory had fled along with his awareness. Everything gone in one moment.

Then everything really was gone.

***

He came awake with a gasp, and curled around torn muscle and bone, trying to ease the flash of fire down his side the unwary jerk had caused. It hurt, bathing him in pain and sweat, but it was movement.

"John?"

He managed to turn his head now, seeking the voice that had become familiar in lieu of his missing past. Movement. The bobbing head and passing lights meshed with the slight bounce he'd thought was just his own dizziness. They were moving, down a long tunnel of rock it looked like.

"We thought you strong enough to take back now. Try to sleep—it will be a while before we arrive at the Great Circle."

A circle was home? He frowned, confused. "Where?" he whispered.

"The Great Circle. That's what your team came through. We'll take you back and you can go home from there."

It didn't make sense, but even though it probably should have mattered, it didn't. He lay back instead on the stretcher and concentrated on not throwing up when its bearers' every step jolted his damaged head and body.

John, the man had called him. There was a comfort with the name that spoke of memories he couldn't access. A solid name…but not tied to any sense of self he could find. What did a _John_ even look like? He raised one hand to eye-level and examined callused, bare fingers. He was someone who worked with his hands, then. A faint scar ran along the tip of one finger. There would be a ring if…marriage. He wasn't married. His other hand wouldn't move.

A similar exploration of his face revealed only a stubbled, solid chin, an undistinguished nose, and a bandage that covered one side of his face just past his eye. Further exploration was gently halted by a careful hand.

"Don't touch—you'll make it start bleeding again."

Wonderful.

He turned a questioning eye on the man walking along beside him. "What?" he said, all he could manage, and hoping he would be understood.

"You won't wait, will you? I wonder if all your kind are this impatient?" But the man smiled, briefly. "We had not been visited by the Wraith for a long time, but when we'd last been, so many were taken that our race was nearly destroyed. We resolved that we would not again be devastated. It was then we found the caves."

His—John's—attention began to wander, mind still thick and foggy, and he struggled to stay focused and awake.

"That is where we are now. Since that time, we have dug down deeper, farther down than the Wraith can sense us. This is where our people will go now the Wraith have returned. Maybe they will give up and assume our planet's deserted, but if not, we will stay down below as long as necessary."

"Food?" It was getting easier to talk, provided it was no more than a weak murmur. Breathing still hurt but was easier, freeing oxygen for precious words.

"We have a lot stored. There are sheltered fields we will work as we're able. We will survive. But before we go down to our refuge, we will see you safely to the Circle. Will you sleep now?"

Sleep, it did a body good. Hopefully, a mind, too, if he could remember useless quotes like that but not his family or age or eye color. Sleep—it's not just a good idea, it's the law. Where had that come from? Sleep, perchance to dream….

He slept.

***

"John? We're here."

The darkness gave way to light, and he blinked at the cherry glow above him. The sky? No, a sunset, in warm shades of red and orange. The light felt good, and even though the cool twilight air burned his lungs, it felt good, too.

There was the Circle looming over them.

John pushed himself up inch by determined inch onto his good elbow. His side—immobilized arm, battered chest, and swollen shoulder—spasmed with the movement, but he had to look. Dark and stony against the brilliant sky, the Circle looked forbidding, hardly the gateway to home John had imagined on the way there. This was where he'd come from?

"Do you know how to wake it?"

Now he had to _wake_ it?

The "no" was on his lips, until something even more instinctive pushed its way up through his murky memory. It bobbed back under each time he reached for it, but maybe if he just let instinct have its sway….

"Buttons?"

"There." The one person populating his small world pointed a few feet away, and John looked.

The device reminded him of a mushroom even though he didn't know how he knew mushrooms: squat and round, a platter on a stem. And on the platter, buttons.

"Help me."

There was a moment of uncertainty in his nameless friend's face, but they both knew he had to do this. A firm hand took him under his good arm, eased him up.

Oh, God, he was going to die.

Senses crashed for a moment, the world reeling. Every ache that had faded to tolerable dullness flared to full intensity again, and the stab of agony nearly burned out his weak consciousness.

And then slowly, very slowly, the worst of the pain began to fade.

"John! _John!_ "

He had the sense someone had been calling him for a long time, but he'd been too focused on not screaming to bother listening, let alone speak. Even so, it took three tries. "Here."

"Can you do this? We can wait a little."

No, they were going underground, and the Wraith could be back soon. The thought, formless in its threat, still made him shiver. They had already sacrificed to bring him up here; the least he could do was not waste any time going home. John gritted his teeth. "Help me."

The steps were excruciatingly slow, and just plain excruciating, but they managed. The mushroom got closer, and just when he didn't think he could take another step, it was there in front of him.

John shut his thoughts off and simply reached.

The fingers knew where they were going even if his mind didn't, confidently pressing one button, then another. Each lit in his wake. John watched them passively, admiring the shapes, not trying to recall what they meant. Four, five….

His hand hesitated. John closed his eyes. There, some sort of protective impulse this time. He was not to show others the way home. Even those who had saved his life? He opened his eyes to stare at his companion.

Who, amazingly, seemed to understand. "That is wise. We won't watch."

They remembered safeguards he couldn't: no names, no cave locations. Nothing but, oh yeah, saving his life, and now, returning him to it. John's mouth curled into a small smile, and the man returned it before looking away. The two who had come with him had already moved to one side, talking quietly with their backs to them.

There. Freed from the constraints of a duty his mind couldn't even remember, his hand found the last buttons. He knew before he pressed the jewel in the middle what would happen next.

The wash of false water sent a breeze over his face, enough to nearly knock him down. The hold on his arm tightened, and then there was a smile in the voice that said warmly, "You can go home now."

He took a step toward the liquid horizon, and again some nameless instinct jerked him to a stop. "No."

"What, John?"

"Where…my things…."

The man produced a bag. Again his fingers dipped in, knowing what he was searching for. A device with more buttons, and he closed his eyes again to let his body take over and remember for him. It pressed a combination. Done.

Nothing happened.

Maybe it wasn't supposed to? John looked at it, then at his companion. Apparently not. And it was time to go, he felt it. "I can't…thanks."

That smile again. It reminded him of someone he didn't know, someone cocky but good-hearted, someone who had saved him, too. "You're welcome. But, please, don't come looking for us again. You won't find us."

He understood the sense if not the actual words. They wouldn't meet again. But home awaited, and John pulled away without reluctance, taking a moment to find his balance. He still felt broken, dizzy, and nauseated, but he was going home, and that gave him strength. His friends and his memories lay on the other side.

John took a step, then another, then crossed the threshold.

He stepped out on the other side shaken and unbalanced. His vision wavered, even the adrenaline no longer enough to keep him functioning and on his feet much longer. He blinked desperately, trying to see if this really was home, if there was something here he knew.

A man and a woman approached, slender, dark, but their faces too blurry to make out and their movements slow, wary. He could have cried in frustration. Was this even the right place?

"Rodney?"

The name brought memories crashing over him like a tidal wave. But…. "John?" he faltered. The room, already reeling, began to spin, and with it these people he was on the verge of recognizing.

Dr. Rodney McKay spun away with it.

***

John Sheppard keyed open the room door and stepped inside, then mentally locked it behind him and sagged against it.

Rodney was really gone.

He hadn't believed it at first, even after he'd seen McKay beamed up into a dart with his own eyes. There one moment, trying to help the people they'd just met get to safety, and disappearing into the beam when John looked again. He hadn't even had the chance to shout a warning.

A part of him had argued that maybe it hadn't been Rodney. Yeah, he'd been in the same spot a moment before and there was no one else around, but stranger things had happened. Two more recon visits to the planet had swayed even John's adamant denial, however. The village was empty, another planet picked clean by the Wraith. The three of them had been lucky to escape back to Atlantis. But he didn't feel lucky.

He really should have been used to it by now, after all the losses of his life: mother, friends in the service, just about everyone he'd ever cared about. But Rodney had fooled him, so stubborn and sure of himself and stuffed full of life, that death didn't seem to be able to get a hold on him. Rodney could talk himself out of any jam, right? Besides, he was a scientist, not a soldier. Even if he was often on the front lines, he was as safe a friend as John could find.

Not safe enough. Not nearly safe enough.

John drew a ragged breath and knuckled eyes that had been prickling ever since the memorial service they'd had a few hours before. It was a stupid, macho myth that soldiers never cried; he'd shed more than a few tears for family and friends over the years. He just always did it in private.

The room was surprisingly lacking for an occupant so full of character. No pictures or personal mementos beside the bed, no decorations on the wall, bed neatly made. Rodney's lab showed more signs of being lived in, which made sense considering he spent most of his time there when he wasn't on a mission or exploring the city or saving them all one more time from some impending crisis. Wouldn't he have been smug to hear that, John thought with a weak smile. Rodney the Great: they'd have to erect a small plaque or statue or something in memoriam.

In memoriam. The weight of why he was there rolled back onto him. John edged over to the bed and sank down on its end. No memorial would do the man justice; you had to meet Rodney to understand. Even then so many didn't, seeing the surface glibness and arrogance and never getting past those, to the eyes that filled with terror when his friends were in trouble, or the hands that shook from fatigue while working round-the-clock to save them, or the self-sacrificial gestures. The man underneath was worth being friends with, even best friends with, and John eventually had, ignoring the voice of self-protective experience. So here he was, trying to draw tears from an empty well for one more lost friend. One aggravating, loud, temperamental…really good friend.

John rubbed his eyes with one hand, then looked around the room again.

Elizabeth would delegate someone to pack up Rodney's stuff at some point, putting it into storage until some possible return to Earth one day. It didn't look like there would be much to pack besides clothes. Except maybe…huh. John frowned at the room. What personal item had Rodney brought with him? John had never thought to wonder, let alone ask.

He stood and stepped over to their Atlantean version of dressers, keying open one drawer. Socks and underwear, neatly folded, and even as his nose wrinkled in disgust at rifling through Rodney's boxers, John did a quick check to make sure nothing was hidden at the bottom of the drawer. Nope. The next one held a row of uniform shirts, all blue, and nothing else. Under that was civilian clothing. John flipped through plaid shirts and tasteless tees.

There. Something stiff was tucked into the middle of one folded stack. John drew out the small handful of photos and shuffled through them.

Major Sam Carter. John rolled his eyes; that figured. Next, a cat, and he found himself smiling. Talk about needing to get a life. And…a picture, with the washed-out colors of being a few decades old; a preteen boy and an even younger girl, hand in hand in front of a house. John would never have recognized the boy if not for the eyes that, even then, were pained and lonely. Rodney had gotten better at hiding the look, but John had caught it in a few unwary moments over the last several months. It had been one of the reasons he'd bothered to start looking past the prickly exterior. The girl with Rodney was doubtless his sister, looking as happy as her brother. Nice childhood.

John stared at that picture a minute, then flipped through the others again. A fantasy relationship, a pet, and a single estranged family member: the life that collection testified to was even lonelier than his own, and that was saying some-thing. Maybe he'd recognized a kindred spirit in Rodney without even being aware of it. John grimaced and slid the pictures back into their place before continuing his search. Pictures didn't count as the personal item.

The second-to-last drawer held slacks and jeans, the pockets yielding nothing. It was when he moved down to the bottom drawer and felt underneath the jacket and sweaters that John's fingers finally encountered something else: paper, but larger than a book. Curious, John pulled it out.

Piano sheet music. Etudes, sonnets, _Für Elise_. Old and well-worn and totally useless in a city that had no known musical instruments. Rodney would probably have guessed as much, yet here they were, his one precious personal item.

John shook his head, the loss freshly painful. He'd learned a lot about the scientist in those last few months, but there was still a lot he didn't know, and now he never would. It wasn't fair. It was never fair.

Gently, he slipped the music back where it had been hidden, and closed the drawer. He'd come there to grieve, to say good-bye and make himself feel a little better, but all he felt was bitterness.

Atlantis's soft alarm began to sound.

John's head jerked up. Now what?

One deep breath and he was back in control; the grief and tears would have to wait another day. Maybe in Rodney's lab, because there was too little of his friend here to mourn. But for now, John had his duty. By the time he stepped back out into the hallway, he was Major Sheppard, not Rodney's friend. With a determined trot, he headed for the control room.

"What's going on?"

Elizabeth looked up at his arrival, face drawn in perplexity. "Somebody dialed in a minute ago. Nothing came through at first and we were starting to think it was a misdial, but we just received an IDC code."

"I thought we didn't have any teams off-world right now."

"We don't." She tilted her head. "It's your team's code."

What? He blinked. Teyla and Ford were here; he'd just seen them at the service not long before. And Rodney…. His gut twisted. But no one else even knew their code. "Open the iris," he said flatly.

Weir's lips pressed together. "We don't know—"

"Open the iris," he repeated. Pleaded. There was a Marine lieutenant at his post just a few feet away and John borrowed his weapon without hesitation. "Nothing's getting into the city."

It was bravado and she knew it, but Elizabeth considered him a moment, then nodded, first at him, then at Peter. Grodin dropped the shield.

John thanked her with a glance, then turned and hurried down the stairs, hearing her step behind him. The hope had melted almost immediately from his heart, too cruel to nurse. No, he was just angry now that someone—something—had dared pretend and made them think for even a moment…. Made him hope…. But he refused. It hurt too much.

John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, four of his men taking up their stance on either side of him, Elizabeth just behind. He raised a hand to stop her. Something was coming through the gate, and John brought up his weapon and sighted along it.

At Rodney McKay, stumbling to a halt just inside the horizon.

He was shaking. Hurt.

Rodney.

John stared. A soldier's mind never had the luxury of shutting down in shock, but John's couldn't help but pause. Disbelief first, then a fast fury that someone would take the ploy this far.

But…it was Rodney. Had to be. No one would have sent them such a battered fake. He looked like he'd taken on the Wraith single-handedly, his right arm bound to his chest, his face bandaged and bruised, his body hunched over like something inside hurt. He was nearly white, squinting like he couldn't see them very well, and his eyes….

Elizabeth stepped down beside John, but he ignored her, just kept staring over his lowering weapon. "Rodney?" he asked, not quite believing yet, but darn it, hope wouldn't be denied. Those eyes were straight out of the picture in the dresser, and no shapeshifter or hologram or hallucination could have duplicated Rodney McKay that perfectly. Which meant….

Rodney's good hand twitched, then his whole body shuddered. His lips formed a single word. "John?"

And then those bleak eyes rolled back and his legs folded under him.

John lunged forward with a curse, too late to keep the injured arm from bumping the floor but catching Rodney's limp body before his head hit the ground. It looked beat-up enough as it was.

But he was also alive, heart hammering against John's chest before he could shift his grip and ease Rodney down to the floor. John stared at him, fascinated, terrified, and about twenty other things he couldn't sort out just then. Rodney's breathing wasn't good, and even unconscious he flinched every time his arm was jostled, but he was _alive_.

Hope…it actually felt pretty good.

***

Beckett had done a classic double-take at being called to help someone whose memorial service he'd just attended, but he'd quickly gotten to work and whisked Rodney to the infirmary. John had gone with them, helping them first move Rodney to the stretcher, then to the diagnostic bed. Then he'd found himself a nice out-of-the-way seat and settled in to watch the exam.

It took a while, the treatment even longer. Broken arm, broken ribs, and a head injury was the verdict, with still no answers as to why or how. There were all kinds of strategic considerations to Rodney returning, badly injured, ramifications they would need to consider. That last part especially would need checking into, but…not just yet. John was simply Rodney's friend at that moment, and unless the Wraith showed up on their doorstep in the next couple of hours, Major Sheppard could just wait a while.

Elizabeth came in while Carson was setting the arm. "How's he doing?" she asked.

John answered without looking at her. "Oh, pretty good for a dead guy."

She was probably giving him that slightly exasperated look, and, oh darn, he was missing it. "Are you sure—?"

They'd probably do tests to check and there were still a lot of unanswered questions, but, "Yeah." John nodded firmly. "I'm sure." It was a good thing she didn't ask how, because he wouldn't have been able to tell her. But that empty spot in him had filled the moment he'd met Rodney's eyes, and John knew.

"Captain Landers took a team back to the planet and there's still no sign of the inhabitants, but they did find this by the gate."

He did look away for that, to see a woven bag. John gave her a questioning look, and Elizabeth reached into it, pulling out a handful of equipment, including a GDO.

"Huh."

"Yes, well, I think Rodney's going to have quite the story to tell when he wakes up."

 _When he wakes up_. John smiled at her. "I bet he will."

She nodded once and turned to leave.

"Elizabeth?"

Weir turned back.

"I'm taking two days vacation, starting now."

Her eyebrow rose. "We don't have vacation days, John, remember?"

"Oh. Actually, I meant sick leave. I've got this…pain." His hand hovered vaguely over his torso.

Elizabeth's mouth twitched. "Well, I guess you'd better stay here then."

"Right." He nodded sagely. "That's probably a good idea. I can keep an eye on things around here, too, make sure there're no security risks or anything."

"That sounds like a good idea," she said with the poker face of a diplomat, and walked out.

He forgot her as soon as she crossed the threshold. Returning his attention to the activity two beds away, John didn't waste any time becoming reabsorbed in the far more interesting spectacle that was the Rodney McKay show.

***

Eventually, it was just the two of them.

Rodney looked worse than when he'd lurched through the gate, the dirt cleaned off to reveal extensive bruising and his arm and half his torso covered in bandages and plaster. The arm was slightly elevated to reduce the swelling and keep it from resting against an impressive five broken ribs. His head looked better, gauze covering a few small cuts with some purple swelling visible near its edges, but it was the most serious injury. Carson was keeping an eye out for brain swelling. But John had heard what Rodney said before his collapse, and knew he'd be okay. He just wouldn't be enjoying life very much for a while.

The key word there, however, was _life_.

John shook his head. "Figures," he said softly. "You always did like a big entrance." The more attention, the better. How had he, the original _you leave me alone, I'll leave you alone_ guy ever become friends with someone who loved the limelight so much?

John leaned forward, arms resting on his legs, hands dangling between his knees, thinking a moment.

"Would it kill you to stay out of trouble for a couple of missions?" A beat, and he winced. "Okay, bad expression, but you get the idea. I mean, we held a _memorial_ service for you."

Rodney's face twitched, then smoothed out again in blank unconsciousness.

"I bet you wanna hear about it, too. Well, it was very nice. Lots of mourners, people dressed in black. I think Dr. Z might've choked up a little. Even Kavanaugh looked a little… less disdainful. No weeping and wailing, but what can I say, it was short notice."

Too short. One minute you're walking next to somebody, thinking about the pebble in your boot or what's for dinner, the next, they're gone, and you can't forgive yourself for not having taken advantage of every spare moment together. It was all-too-familiar ground.

This second-chance stuff, however, was kinda new. John wasn't sure what to make of it yet, but it was probably why he was sitting there talking to an unconscious Rodney.

"I found your pictures—I figured you wouldn't mind me going through your stuff, being dead and all. Does Major Carter know you have a picture of her? 'Cause I'm thinking if we get back to Earth, she might want to hear about that."

Rodney twitched again, sleeping restlessly without the drugs Beckett would have normally kept him on if not for the head injury. John flinched sympathetically, knowing how much broken ribs could hurt even in sleep. He reached up to pull Rodney's blanket higher, a gesture he knew was more for his own comfort than the sleeper's.

"Saw your sister, too—cute kid. You never told me if she's married." And wouldn't that have turned Rodney a few shades of purple, the thought of Sheppard dating his sister? John smiled. It would almost have been worth the reaction to do it. "Guess she got all the looks in the family, huh?" Light, he would keep it light, not a word about the unhappiness that filled the picture. John would never mention it. But he wouldn't forget it, either.

Rodney, chalk-white, slept on.

John sighed. "I finally get a chance to talk without you interrupting me and you're not even listening. I'm trying to not take this personally, Rodney, I really am, but you know me and my fragile ego."

Rodney stirred and moaned under his breath.

John sat up a little straighter. "Rodney?"

Not quite awake, but he wasn't sleeping as deeply, either, restless now even as his arm and ribs allowed little movement.

"Take it easy, McKay," John soothed, and laid a hand on his good arm.

It seemed to help some, Rodney frowning but less agitated.

John gave him a thoughtful look, then leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the bed, boots just nudging Rodney's uninjured side. Somewhere along the way, his little scientist had developed a soldier's need for knowing someone was there, watching his back. Wasn't that in-teresting?

Rodney settled back into sleep. John, feeling more than a little pleased with himself, crossed his arms and tilted his chair back, careful not to move his feet.

"So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Not a bad-looking cat, either. You two been together long?"

***

Something was wrong.

The sense had underlain his dreams like an elusive scent and had drawn him toward awareness again and again, only to run up against another feeling, even stronger, that he was safe. It was a while before he woke enough to realize the source of that assurance: a pair of boots.

He stared at the footwear blankly a few moments before letting his drooping eyes shut again. He was hurt; that much was obvious, and with a distant pain that meant more serious damage, but also help and treatment. Where the boots came in, he wasn't sure. Wasn't really sure of much, actually, except….

"John?" he croaked.

The boots shifted, jostling his side before thumping to the ground. "Yeah, I'm here."

Not quite what he'd expected, yet he was already forgetting what he'd expected.

The voice moved closer. "The real question is, are you?"

He turned his head fractionally and groaned when it felt like his brains had bounced against his skull with the movement.

A hand pressed his wrist. "Hey, sorry, I was just— You okay? I can call Beckett."

He dragged his eyes open, ever-so-slowly, to bring the speaker into view. Dark hair, sharp eyes, tentative grin. That was—

"John?" Another voice, the accented one of his dreams, came from offstage somewhere to the left.

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Their answers came in chorus, his whisper nearly lost in the volume of the other, but he got a strange look.

"Is he awake?" the new voice asked.

"Yeeeah." One more probing look from his companion, then someone moved between them, someone instantly familiar.

"Carson."

"Good to see you awake, Rodney." Cold gloved fingers did things to his body he didn't want to think about. "Can you tell me how you're feelin'?"

But his attention was elsewhere. Rodney—he was Rodney. And frowning at him over Carson's shoulder, that was John. John, Sheppard, Major. Owner of the boots that made him feel ridiculously secure.

John.

"Rodney?"

It still took a minute to snap back to his own name, but he finally realized Carson was waiting for his attention, and slid his gaze back to the doctor.

"Can you tell me what happened to ya?" Carson asked.

What happened. They'd come to Atlantis. He'd made friends, a home. The details were clearing up as if through a focusing camera lens, but the most recent ones remained foggy: a planet, danger and chaos, a thunder of sound and then pain. And John. No, _he'd_ been John. The man who'd helped him had no name, and his face was vague at best, refusing to sharpen.

Beckett patted his shoulder. "It's okay, don't strain yourself. Just rest for now."

Rest. He blinked heavily, lulled by just the sound of it.

Quiet footsteps retreated, but he wasn't alone. The looking was taking increasing effort, but he did it, eyes sluggishly tracking John as he moved closer.

"What was that about? Did you change your name or something while you were gone?"

"Don' be," breath, "idiot." Rodney muttered, trying to sound irritated but only managing winded.

"Right," John drawled, "'cause I always go around pretending to be you. I heard you answer Beckett, and you keep saying 'John' but usually it's 'Major,' so somehow I don't think you were talking to me. What's going on, Rodney?"

He'd been wondering about that himself, but the memory bobbed up now at John's command. As much as he argued and complained, he usually did what Sheppard asked. "He said I…said 'John' when…found me."

The major's expression changed, too subtly for Rodney's foggy mind to understand. "You did, huh? Who told you that?" He was much quieter now.

It hurt to draw in enough air to talk. Parts of his body were starting to wake up that he'd just as soon remained asleep. Rodney shook his head minutely, grimacing in frustration and pain. "He…. Cou'n't remember. John sounded …good." He blinked slowly. "Weird."

Sheppard fidgeted. It was hard to follow the movement. "Yeah, well, I guess you can borrow my name this one time, but next time how 'bout I just be there to answer when you call?"

Rodney huffed a laugh. "Better yet…no next time."

"Yeah, that sounds good to me."

The blankets Carson had moved for the check-up were drawn back to his chin.

"I wanna hear about this friend of yours when you wake up, but get some sleep now, okay?"

There was something here Rodney wasn't under-standing, something that had John watching him intently from the start and had only sharpened with Rodney's answers. But he wasn't going to understand it now, thoughts muddy with exhaustion and ache. John didn't look like he intended to leave just yet, which meant they could sort it out later. Those boots had actually been kinda comfortable.

"Quit trying to think, Rodney—go to sleep."

His eyes were already half-shut, blocking out everything in the room but John's shirt. Rodney addressed himself to it. "Can have…name back."

"Gee, thanks."

Maybe he was already dreaming but the sarcasm sounded almost affectionate.

"Go to sleep, will ya? I'll wait for you—we've got a wake to plan after you get better."

The words were meaningless now, like the boots, just a soothing anchor. It didn't matter. He was Rodney, but there was also a John. His friend John. The world was righted again.

Rodney McKay slept.

The End


End file.
